This is a challenge I’m up for. I’ve never written a review for a play within two days - that’s a lot. But when Vus'umuzi Phakathi says, “Hey, ngicela ireview…”, you oblige.

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Athol Fugard’s Master Harold and the Boys is an old play, but I didn’t have any background when I went in. Thank God for Vusi and Theatre on the Square for the comps. The theatre culture in Johannesburg is fairly healthy - the house was about 65% full, with a diverse audience. That was cool.

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The show is set in 1950s Eastern Cape. At one point, I noticed the old telephone on the wall — not handheld, not the one I wrote my notes with - and thought, wow, we’ve really evolved. But I adore the magic of what a set can do. Big ups to Wilhelm Disbergen for the time travel.

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This staging was directed by Warona Seane — a brilliant director and actor, a Black woman. A thought that crossed my mind early was how she directed three male bodies on stage: two older Black men, and one young white boy.

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Sello Maake ka Ncube plays Sam, joined by Lebohang Motaung as Willie. The opening is light and joyous. Willie is rehearsing for a dance competition, and it immediately made me think about dance as resistance. As freedom. The way Black people organised and created joy for themselves - that stuck with me.

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There’s this line about “gliding through it.” It still plays in my head. What does it mean to glide through life, through trauma, through resistance? As Black people. As a queer person. As a woman. As a man.

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Then Hally, played by Daniel Anderson, enters. The young white boy, in school uniform. The energy dipped. Maybe that was the direction. Or maybe that’s just how it is. White energy entering a space Black people have built for themselves shifts things. It alters the energy. Lowers it.

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I started thinking, What’s with white men calling waiters or butlers “chaps” or “buddy”? A white guy in our group did it earlier that night and it irked me. Then in the play, Hally does the same. It’s so casual. And so loaded. Power lives in language.

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These Black men - Sam and Willie - created a safe space for Hally. And even though his father and other white people say the most violent things about them, they remain strong.

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The play runs for almost two hours, in real time, set in a single afternoon. It’s text-heavy, but it makes you sit with discomfort. You’re forced to unpack in that time. To feel. To face the reality mirrored on stage - especially where race is concerned.

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I had a burning question for the actor who played Hally: “What was it like saying those words in this day and age?” Because it’s wild. This isn’t some distant history lesson. It’s here. Our country. Our context. He’s a white man saying those words. That has weight.

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Watching the play felt like watching Hally wrestle with his own internal tension. Probably the same tension Daniel Anderson had, playing him. Holding that text. Knowing it’s true. Being brave enough to engage. To mirror society - how it’s been, how it is, and maybe how it always will be.

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The play is a reminder that we have to start these conversations early. And to white people: watch how you move and behave around Black people. Especially when your experience has probably been kindness. Don’t let that be shaped by ignorance or arrogance.

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The kite, for me, is so significant. First, because he doubted they could build it. They did. They gave him joy his father never could. They brought light, love, gentleness - and still, the one person he holds onto is his father. Even while resenting him. His mother doesn’t even get a piece of him. Why him?

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He has personal experiences - the kite, the kindness from Willie and Sam - but he still clings to the hate and superiority passed down by his alcoholic father and other white family members.

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And that’s the real power dynamic, isn’t it? Who we still try to please. Who we still want to be seen by. Why was he so mean to his mother? Maybe because the only power he’s learned to respect is violence. And then what?

 

That’s the discomfort this play brings. And that’s its power. I questioned whether we still need to stage stories from the 1950s. But writing this, I’ve surrendered to it. It moved me. It gave me rage. It gave me pride. I’m writing this in English - am I conquering? Integrating? Leaving the same mark Fugard did? Absolutely. Maybe all of it.

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Athol Fugard, a white man, wrote a play that challenges other white people to look in the mirror. It’s a call-out. A teaching tool. A confrontation. For Black people, it’s a reminder of our resilience. Our power.

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Even now, I’m still holding questions.
What does the uniform mean?
Why is it Hally,Willie and Sam wear uniforms? Is it control? Is it performance? Is it a reminder that everyone’s still playing roles?

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The questions are alive. That’s theatre.

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They waltz in the end. That moment represented the ongoing fight. They continue. They resist — through joy. I found that unbelievably moving. A reminder: joy is resistance. Being fully Black and fully ourselves is resistance.

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Dance. Take up space.